


twisted kind of game

by illgivethattoyou



Category: The 100 (TV), The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, District 12, F/M, I don't know how to tag this, Minor Character Death, Tribute!Clarke, Victor!Bellamy, Violence, a bunch of those, but have fun it's 20k, i'm very ashamed of this, mentor!Bellamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 04:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13182168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illgivethattoyou/pseuds/illgivethattoyou
Summary: He was quiet for a long time, then finally snickered softly. “You actually want to try.”It was her turn to be silent, trying to come up with the best response to his statement. “I want Wells to live. I want to help him survive the best I can,” she finally nodded. “I want you to help me help him.”Bellamy stood up. Too quickly. He swayed, but before his hand reached the table, she steadied him by the arm. He was taller; she reached up to his chin with her forehead. “Listen, princess. You’ve seen the other tributes. Do you really think your friend stands a chance againstthat?”Clarke bit her lip as she looked into his eyes, and noticed that there was something pained in there, like pity. Her eyebrows drew into a frown. “Maybe together, we do.”He waited. Then he laughed.





	1. 001

When she waddled up to the stage, her eyes blank and breathing visibly labored, he could practically feel the roaring of the blood in his ears again. The image of Octavia, the trembling twelve-year-old in the crowd, crossed his mind. How he imagined her alone after he died. Who would take care of her? He made a futile attempt to push the image away. She’d be safe for another year. Three to go.

He didn’t know the kid of the district’s best medic too well, but he carried some respect for her. They had a few unmemorable conversations at school, but Octavia had mentioned that Clarke Griffin had dropped by multiple times during his Games, to hand her some bread or meat for nothing in return. He was grateful for that, but it had occurred to him that if she’d done that to him if Octavia was in that Arena, he’d have shut her down. He hated pity. So when his sister managed a smile for the young woman, he thanked her, but that was that. They were even. He was back to taking care of his own sister. She was _his_ responsibility, after all.

He eyed her from a distance, and watched as she collected herself slowly, without any words. Her face became steel, if only for a minute. After that, the boy was drawn from the bowl.

Wells Jaha. The mayor’s son. He was a dark-skinned kid, not exactly buff; not skinny either. Bellamy thought of his own Games. He compared the two new tributes to what he expected would be their competition, and accepted the fact that he’d be a mentor for a little longer. Maybe it was morbid to write them off, like he did last year, but it lowered his expectations. Things could only go up from there.

______________________

Clarke slowly let her fingers run over the soft fabric of the chair. Wells sat next to her as the train pulled out of the station, and they watched the meadows run by until they became nothing but a blur. They didn’t speak; Clarke’s thoughts were so loud she could’ve mistaken it for a thousand conversations being held at once. Maybe she deserved this place. Maybe she’d be okay in there, somehow; hiding and finding herself food until someone came along to kill her. But she couldn’t have Wells there. He didn’t belong here. He was supposed to live. She couldn’t be angry, or sad. She was mostly empty. She felt blood on her hands that hadn’t been there before, even though she’d been over patients dying on the table, or mercy killing. She felt as if she’d murdered her best friend, while he was sitting right next to her.

After they’d surely passed the whole of district twelve, in came Cece, the overly excited escort for the Games. She wasn’t the most extra escort there was, far from, even, but her heavy eye makeup and the unfamiliar fabric wrapping her body gave her away. The squeaky voice, that didn’t fit any occasion, pierced the air. It broke heavy on Clarke’s head.

“Soooo, Wells, Clarkey,” she smiled. Clarke drew her shoulder blades back a little, cringing inwardly at the nickname. “We’ll be arriving in Polis by morning. You’ve never been, of course, so I’ll tell you beforehand; it’s utmost exciting.” Clenching her jaw, Clarke folded her arms over her chest tightly, and crossed her ankles.

“Yes, thanks,” Wells said. That he could say something at this point, so politely. Clarke thought it was a typical trait from his father; he must’ve picked it up. They had been friends since childhood. She was aware of every side of Wells, and now that she thought about it, he was probably going to get more than a few sponsors. His manners were excellent, he could be charming, funny, knew what to say in any situation. _She_ was going to be in trouble. She was fierce, and calculated, but couldn’t pretend she was enjoying herself if she really wasn’t.

“Your sleeping cabins are down the hall,” Cece skipped out of the room as quickly as she made it in.

“Thanks,” Clarke said, looking up to her best friend, eyes watery.

He looked at her, almost a little annoyed. “Come here, Clarke.”

She cried briefly, but knew that it was mostly because he didn’t deserve to die. He’d been willing to go so far. If there was anything he didn’t deserve, it was death. Her mother should’ve been here instead of him. Maybe that was exactly why she didn’t mind being here as much.

______________________

Bellamy couldn’t bring himself to see the kids before arriving in Polis. Mostly because he was drunk, but also because they were busy with grief and feelings he didn’t want to get involved with. After they arrived, all they’d be doing was the parade, the interviews, the training. They’d be busy. It made sense after finishing most of a bottle of whiskey.

He didn’t actually drink that much. He was scary when he was drunk, according to Octavia, and because he wanted to spare her that, he didn’t drink where she could see. Arriving back in hell, though, was the perfect occasion. He was fairly hungover when he and Cece walked up to the twelfth floor of the tribute’s flat. Cece was in charge of talking, leaving him to do the necessary brooding in the back.

He was saved again, as Clarke and Wells were torn away from him and the escort again to prep for the parade. Cece went out to look, but Bellamy spent the time behind the television screen in the apartment, his feet on the table, a bottle of wine stuck to his hand.

He digged it, the whole holding hands and reassuring looks thing they were going for. Clarke had coal dust like war paint under her eyes. It wouldn’t have made sense to do that for Wells, the stylist had decided, so they literally set the pair on fire. They both wore a cape that seemed to be blazing; but perhaps it was just the light and some really cool jewelry. Bellamy was honestly too hazy to see. He was impressed, though. “If only my stylist had been fuckin’ smart like that,” he slurred, out loud, to no one in particular.

______________________

An hour after the president’s speech was over, the trio barged in to see Bellamy in the same spot at the table. Cece huffed and continued her way towards the bathroom, leaving Wells and Clarke standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. 

Wells clucked his tongue. “I’m just going to get cleaned up, Clarke. You probably should, too.”

The blonde’s eyes flickered to the slumped form of the former Victor at the table, then back to Wells. “Yeah, I will,” she muttered, feeling like she hadn’t used her voice in a while. “G’night.”

Wells’ dark eyes wandered to Bellamy too, but he left her in her spot as he lumbered over to his own room.

Clarke hesitated. The mentor -- who hadn’t really been acting like a mentor -- rested an empty bottle of wine on the table and his chin on his chest. She was pretty certain he was asleep. Following her instincts, she walked over to wake him up. He’d probably be pleased to find himself in bed in the morning, rather than hunched over in a hard chair. 

She’d watched him on tv, two years ago. He seemed like a gentle soul, acting all tough in the interviews, but helping a young boy out in the beginning of the Games, and crying as the kid died. Clarke had been helping Octavia, his sister. Not because she took a liking to her brother, or something. Even if Bellamy had been a complete ass during his Hunger Games, that wouldn’t change the fact that his sister was alone and hungry. Since the Griffin family had plenty, Clarke would pass by the twelve-year-old girl sometimes to pass on meat or bread.

A medic didn’t even make that much in district twelve. It had been her father’s skills. He went out illegally, behind the fence. He liked using his hands to make things: to set traps, his nimble fingers tying knots for rabbits and squirrels to run into. Clarke had picked up as much as she could. She went with him, sometimes, out in the woods, or to the back of the butchery. He dealt his meat behind the backs of the authorities. Behind her mother’s back, even. When she found out, she wasn’t happy. She discussed it with Thelonious. It got Jake Griffin killed. Her mother had ratted him out -- not Wells, like she’d thought.

She swallowed and approached the man. He was two years older than she was, and he and Octavia shared some looks. But she was fair-skinned, while he had the olive tone that most of the lower-class citizens in district twelve had. He also had freckles covering his every inch of skin, Clarke saw. As she took the bottle from between his fingers, he blinked slowly. That was how she came to notice his eyes; dark pools with a certain hollowness engraved in them. She clenched her jaw.

“Could’ve left me here easily,” he grumbled.

She snorted, placing the bottle on the table. “It doesn’t seem too comfortable.”

He blinked, but left his eyes hooded as he stared up at her. Languidly, amusement took over his face. “You gotta stop that ‘taking care of everyone’ thing you’ve got going on. It won’t help you.” He was probably referring to his sister, but maybe he’d forgotten about that.

Clarke pursed her lips. “You’re not my enemy.”

“I’m not your friend, either,” he threw back, looking unimpressed.

“No, you’re our mentor,” Clarke replied, feeling the urge to place her hands on her hips. “You’re the best chance I have. And if not me; then Wells. I’d better make you my friend.”

He was quiet for a long time, then finally snickered softly. “You actually want to try.”

It was her turn to be silent, trying to come up with the best response to his statement. “I want Wells to live. I want to help him survive the best I can,” she finally nodded. “I want you to help me help him.”

Bellamy stood up. Too quickly. He swayed, but before his hand reached the table, she steadied him by the arm. He was taller; she reached up to his chin with her forehead. “Listen, princess. You’ve seen the other tributes. Do you really think your friend stands a chance against _that_?”

Clarke bit her lip as she looked into his eyes, and noticed that there was something pained in there, like pity. Her eyebrows drew into a frown. “Maybe together, we do.”

He waited. Then he laughed. It grew in his chest until it rolled over his tongue, a little like she imagined waves doing as they reached the sand. He laughed and laughed, until he stumbled away from her, to leave her standing in the living room; alone.

______________________

An odd sense of humiliation trickled in her chest the whole day, like a tap left running. Bellamy didn’t have any faith in them. Something inside her said that he might’ve been right, if only remotely, but she was too stubborn to admit any of that. He’d laughed in her face. It made her want to crawl in a hole and die. Which was probably what she’d be doing in a few days; just not right now. No matter how strong that feeling was, she put on a hard face as she entered the training room. From the moment her feet touched the floor, she was back to doing whatever it was that was efficient or smart. That was her specialty. Stashing away her heart for her head to take its place.

She told Wells to go do something by himself. If anything would be smart, she’d appear as if she was alone. As if she really was the small, fragile girl everyone already thought she was. _Including her own mentor_. She looked around, at Indra, a career from district two, tossing a spear in the center of its target. A small girl sat tangled in the ropes high above her head, glancing over at Wells with curious eyes. Two guys, from three and eight, if she remembered correctly, conversed quietly near the fire-making station. Clarke cautiously picked a station where no one was at work, and let the teacher explain to her how to set a trap. As if she didn’t know it already. She was pretending to be clumsy, though, because it was part of her act. It frustrated the teacher; it was kind of funny.

As she grumbled in her throat when he rolled his eyes at her and turned away, she tossed the string onto the floor. That would be enough. Another station would do. But she was interrupted. “That knot do something to you, princess?”

He was from seven, she thought. His floppy, half-long hair didn’t tell her anything about his name, though. She most definitely didn’t remember him. She looked up at him, unimpressed, cold. Alone didn’t mean; up for making friends. Or flirting, for that matter, since it looked like the boy had nothing but the latter in mind. 

“It’s Clarke,” she protested, and her mind shot back to the conversation last night.

“Oh, I knew that,” he replied, and according to his tone, he probably really had known. He sank down to the floor. “I’m Finn.”

Clarke lifted her chin a bit. “Pleasure,” she nodded briefly, and rose to her feet. “I’m done here. Have fun here, the knots most definitely bite.” She proceeded to walk away from the station, but he grabbed her by the wrist quickly.

“Come on princess, why don’t you let me show it to you?” he asked softly, his eyes pleading.

Back at home, she knew she’d have fallen for this type of guy. He was friendly, even though the nickname pissed her off, and his face was to die for so cute. But she wasn’t at home. And she wasn’t here to flirt or get into a relationship. It was the last thing she needed, at this point; having Wells in that Arena was bad enough.

“What are you trying to achieve here?” Her tone was almost tired. “I’ll have to kill you later, Finn.”

Maybe he realised that he would’ve won her over in another place, at another time. He tried to make it work here, though. A smirk hovered over his lips. “I wouldn’t be mad about some first Polis sex.”

She snorted, but straightened her face fairly quickly. “I’m not interested. And I’m serious. Stay away from me, okay?”

He backed up, raising his hands to show both palms. “I’m already gone, princess,” but he winked at her.

Clarke rolled her eyes, and sucked in a deep breath before heading over to do some actual training before lunch.

______________________

Bellamy sat at dinner with them, but mostly ignored her. They had brief conversations, about the training centre and the three days they’d spend in it, but that was all. He ignored her, and she could see he did it on purpose. It was alright, if a little bit distracting. Clarke figured that maybe she could draw his attention back with the scores. That meant one thing; they had to be high.

Clarke could do a few things. Her mother had taught her about medicinal plants and health care. Her dad had taught her how to set traps and throw a knife. That didn’t mean she was perfect at any of those, though. And it would definitely not be impressive enough to catch the judges’ attention.

When she lay in bed that night, it occurred to her that she might not get the high score she’d aimed for. Once she’d accepted it, sleeping was easier; if only a little. In the morning, she decided she’d use all of her skills, in a certain order.

After breakfast, before they’d go downstairs to prepare, Bellamy held her back by the crook of her elbow. He spoke to Wells too, but his eyes were on her. “Get as high as possible. You’re relying on sponsors in there,” he reminded them. The words sounded so empty. Clarke retrieved her arm slowly, and stared up at him, wondering what he meant by that stare. Was he willing to believe now? Or was this just because he felt like he needed to act like their mentor for once?

She spoke with Wells in a hushed voice, as most of the tributes were doing before they went into the training room by themselves. They could take any time they needed. Wells told her that he’d probably fight a simulation, or play a quick strategy game. He was good at those. She stretched the conversation, not really willing to talk about her plan. She was beginning to doubt it. Maybe Bellamy’s tone as he had addressed them made her doubt it. He made her doubt herself, she’d noticed. _Well, that’s because her life was on the line_.

Wells disappeared, and she was alone. Clarke spent a lot of time alone, so it didn’t bother her. After her dad died, she isolated herself. The loneliest months of her life. But she could handle it. It made her feel safer, knowing she could be alone. It made death much less terrifying. Wells could be alone, too. She would know; she left him back then, and he’d made it out alive.

Estimating time wasn’t a skill of hers, so she had no clue how long it had been before she was called into the room.

“Ah, Clarke,” said Cage Wallace, the head gamemaker. “Our last tribute. Do you need a simulation, or will you be alright?”

She hesitated, but stuck with her plan. She straightened her back and threw her chin up. “The smartest simulation you have. Make it its goal to find me, in whatever way he can.”

Wallace nodded behind him, and as two gamemakers went to set it up, Clarke gathered her supplies. The knife. The fake branches. The rope. The berries and leaves. She began to spread the branches in the mimicked earth they’d laid out on one side of the room, and snapped them in a certain direction, and nodded when asked if she was ready. 

The robot carried a spear. A long distance weapon. She hid behind a fake tree, her fingers working their way with the rope until the knot would be able to catch the robot at its ankle. She strung it around a thick branch, and mounted the tree -- not very smoothly, might she add, the robot could’ve easily spotted her, but she was lucky he didn’t. She used the overhead ropes to clamber away, the berries in a pouch in her hand; the knife stuck between her hip and the rim of her pants. When she was at a safe distance, she was delighted to see that the robot was following the trail she set up. At this moment, she wrapped the cloth around her hand and took the berries out. They were supposed to be poisonous, she knew. The gamekeepers would have made them safe for training, but just to show that she knew what she was doing, she would avoid the juices on her hands as she rubbed them over the blade of the knife.

Snap. The robot was dangling from the tree by now. She was impressed with herself; she’d only done this once, with her dad, to trap a deer, not a human. But it worked, and in the surge of satisfaction and pride, she threw the knife down with a swift jerk of her wrist.

The pride wore off when she hit the victim’s arm. She’d aimed for the heart, she thought. Now that she considered it, though, she probably hadn’t really aimed for anything. Lousy shot.

She lowered herself from the ropes and onto the floor, knowing to keep smiling, her head high. That was what the poison was for. She came prepared. Being prepared because you were aware of your worth was a good trait, right? Her jaw clenched and unclenched as Wallace told her off, his voice giving away nothing.


	2. 002

She came in with a smudge of red on her jawline, and because he saw it when she came back from the private training and began to converse with Cece slowly, he found himself looking at it constantly. It didn’t really annoy him, but he was just overly aware of it. He didn’t know why he paid so much attention to it. _It’d come out later_ , he kept telling himself, as he glanced at her once more when they sat down in front of the screen, awaiting their scores.

Aim high, he’d told them. According to Wells, they’d at least receive one average score. He’d done pretty well, he felt, fighting his robot. Bellamy settled on the couch, the three and four from last year flashing in front of his eyes, followed by his own nine from two years ago. No one had expected him to score so high into the twelve. But then again, no one had expected him to return from the Games. Maybe Octavia; just because she wanted him to come back so badly.

“And how do you figure you’ve done, Clarke?” Cece beamed. He frowned at her, catching her eye, before letting his gaze shoot back to her jawline. Stupid. Shit, it looked like blood. It probably wasn’t.

Clarke muttered that she just ‘trapped a robot’. No details were given. She was nibbling on a piece of bread with cheese and stared at the screen, as the first scores were announced. _Emori Lewis, district one, a nine._

“But what score do you think it got you?” he asked, before he could stop himself. _Luna Nemiyon, district four, a ten._

She looked over, studying him for a second. He held her gaze, not wanting it to flicker back to the spot. Instead, it ran over her lips briefly, without really meaning anything by it. _Jasper Jordan, district six, a six._

Her eyebrows drew into a frown. “How am I supposed to know?” she snapped. Her eyes immediately softened after, and it seemed she felt like that was too harsh. She didn’t apologise. _Harper McIntyre, district nine, a four._

“Just watch,” muttered Wells. And they did. Not before Bellamy ran his eyes back over the smudge on her jawline. It occurred to him that, _fuck_ , she just had a really nice profile. He liked looking at her jawline. It was a good one. _Zoe Monroe, district eleven, a five._

Their full attention was back on the screen. Wells was up. Alie Light began to read from her card, her voice filled with faked supsense. “Wells Jaha, from district twelve. He’s earned a score of,” she paused for dramatic effect. “six.”

A quiet applause of three pairs of hands went around the room, but it wasn’t exactly cheerful. Still to come was Clarke’s name, and Alie rolled the r in her mouth as it was announced. “Clarke Griffin, from district twelve. With a score of,” the same pause. “eight. And that concludes the list. Tomorrow; the interviews, so stay tuned for further updates. This has been Alie Light, live--” 

Bellamy blocked out the end of the broadcast, and stood up to turn the screen off. “A six and an eight,” he repeated, and just like when he talked that morning, he felt like it wasn’t him speaking. Especially when he looked at Clarke. She wanted to protect her friend, he understood, but he also knew that she didn’t stand a chance. Not with him for a mentor. He couldn’t do this; he was barely out of the fray himself. He forced himself to keep talking. “If you show off your best at the interviews tomorrow, you’ll be getting some sponsors for sure. Speaking of which. We’re going to be doing some practice before they start. Wells, you’re with me first.” He wanted to avoid her for a little longer.

______________________

She knew he was avoiding her by now. He had been stealing sideway glances at her ever since she came back from training, and yes, he’d asked her something, but there was a reason he wanted Wells with him first. When Cece finally dismissed her, telling her that she had the manners, but needed a better smile -- “a fake smile, at least!” she’d pleaded -- Clarke made a beeline for where she knew Bellamy was with Wells, and threw the door open. Only to find out that her best friend wasn’t there anymore.

“How long since you finished?” she asked him airily.

“About an hour,” Bellamy grumbled, without looking at her. He was fidgeting somewhere, pretending to be busy while she was certain he could’ve at least turned around to acknowledge her presence.

It had started to piss her off, but she was far beyond that by now. She walked briskly as she approached him, and lifted her hand to his cheek. It was an audible slap, but not hard. She just wanted to shake him up.

He turned to face her completely. His hand went up to his cheek in surprise. His jaw ticked, but an edgy grin came over his lips. “That how you won yourself an eight, princess?” he uttered.

She resisted the urge to go again, harder this time. “Is this a joke to you, Bellamy? Is it funny?” The words were forced through gritted teeth, her eyes narrowed. She wanted to prod her finger into his chest to put more force to her words. She resisted that, too. There was something else she could do to make him understand. “Two years ago, Kane was still your mentor. What if Octavia had been there, huh? Wouldn’t you have begged for him to help you save her?”

His face fell. His eyes darkened. But his mouth stayed shut, and she knew that was because he’d do anything for his sister, and she was right.

“I swear to god, Bellamy, if you don’t let me help Wells. If you don’t at least try!” She knew the pain in her eyes was there for him to see clearly.

Languidly, most of the hostility began to wash away. She could see him now, a perfect reflection of her fear. She’d hit a nerve. She was good at that, after all. She knew where they were, where it hurt. Bringing up Octavia wasn’t a way to hurt him, though. All Clarke wanted was for him to understand. He did. “Clarke--” was all he managed.

He was at breaking point, she knew, and she wanted to go up and wrap her arms around him. But she didn’t. Instead, she spoke again, very quietly. “You’d think that someone who’s been in there would understand.”

When he sank onto the couch, rubbing his face with one hand, she lost every speck of attitude she had left. Her arms were folded against her chest, but they didn’t belong there. She stood in the middle of the room and stared at the man on the couch, who was taller than her, but suddenly seemed ten years younger. Clarke felt like she’d abused a kid.

“I understand,” If he had any say in it, he probably wouldn’t have wanted his voice to break. But it did. “God, Clarke, I understand.” His fingertips pressed into the skin on his forehead, and he leaned his elbows on his knees. His eyes were carefully avoiding hers. “Which is why I-- I can’t do this, Clarke. You’ve seen me, I’m six feet deep into that Arena still. How can I--” He sharply inhaled, and finally met her gaze, his eyes so desperate. “How can I protect a pair of innocent souls every year, when all I’ve got is the devil?” His hand was picking at the fabric of his shirt near his heart. His eyes fell back in front of him, staring into absolutely nothing.

She was taking a risk as she lowered herself into his line of sight. She worried her lip for a second before talking. “Wells is a good guy, Bellamy,” she uttered, blinking slowly. “Just wait. Just wait for him, and you don’t have to do this alone.”

His breath ruffled the few strands of hair that had fallen into her face -- that's how close their faces were. His mouth was open, and moving, but he wasn't saying anything. She waited, until he finally looked up, and asked: “So I'm supposed to just let you die?”

Clarke hesitated briefly, but shook her head. “You're going to keep me alive until Wells is close to winning. And then I'll let myself die. He's coming back. That's the only thing I want,” He opened his mouth, but she shook her head. “ _Wells_.”

She could see him lock back up, and in a blink, he sheathed himself behind his walls again. But it was alright; she’d said everything she needed to say. “Let’s start, Clarke,” he offered. “What kind of tribute are you?”

______________________

This time, he went down with Cece to watch Clarke and Wells before the interviews. He mostly ignored Cece, but shared friendly looks with his tributes. Mainly with Clarke. Bellamy resisted the urge to snap at one of the other tributes, the guy from seven, when he approached her and made some smooth talk. He just glared, and eventually, the boy left her alone. Bellamy wasn’t sure whether he’d done Clarke a favor, but she didn’t call him out on it.

By the end of the afternoon, she looked gorgeous. They found a way to match her entire outfit to her eyes, which was highly impressive, according to Bellamy. She didn’t need it, but it did make her look especially stunning. When he patted her shoulder after they finished putting her hair up, he felt like he was about to go on that stage too. The same kind of bugs whirled in his stomach.

“You’ve got this, Clarke,” he muttered. “Play it right, and they’ll be in line for you two.”

She smiled, the nerves visible on her face. “They will,” she agreed, but didn’t sound like she meant it.

He waited as the tributes came on and went off stage, all in an outfit that would’ve been carefully assembled by their respective stylists. They had different stories, different faces. Bellamy knew that this would probably be the mentor’s doing. It was their job to get them sponsors, help them impress the audience. He knew his tributes could do it. Clarke could get her sponsors to get supplies she could hand off to Wells, and the latter could very well fend for himself. Something troubled him still, but he didn’t want to dig in finding out what it was. 

Bellamy listened to the boy from six, Jasper, telling a story about his best friend at home he wanted to come back to. Finn from seven openly talked about his girlfriend back home -- which Bellamy frowned at, seeing as he’d clearly been flirting with Clarke less than an hour ago. Gustus from eleven was a huge guy, but he was calm and not even referencing the fact that he could probably put down most of the tributes with ease, which most of the careers had been declaring loudly and proudly.

After his district partner, Zoe, had been interviewed, it was Wells’ turn. Bellamy shared a glance with him. They hadn’t talked about a lot of personal things, but the boy mentioned that he knew Clarke didn’t want to return to her mother, because she felt she had nothing to return to. He’d shrugged when Bellamy asked him if he thought she was right. And then he’d said: “If I think that’s what she feels: yes, because that’s what she tells me. But she deserves something to fight for, you know? All I want her to do is live.”

Wells was a good talker. He knew exactly when to laugh, when to listen and when to talk. Bellamy had noticed it yesterday. It must’ve been because he was the mayor’s son, and knew a little about politics. He didn’t particularly make the crowd laugh or swoon, but he sat comfortably and talked to Alie like it was a casual meeting. When she showed him off, he smiled at his mentor briefly. The latter acknowledged it, and turned back to Clarke. 

She took a seat on stage, and he saw her take an uneasy breath as she sat down. Her mother was friends with the mayor, and had even been at his table. He figured that Clarke must’ve had some experience with diplomacy as well. But she was more uptight than Wells. Bellamy had told her the day before that, if she was comfortable, now was the time to talk about herself. The audience, they didn’t want to hear about the Games yet. That was after they’d started. For now, they wanted to know someone from the inside. If she could fake it, she could talk about what she loved about Polis, or about her lovelife at home, or anything like that.

After two questions where she answered a little awkwardly, she got into it. And when Alie asked her about someone back home, Clarke finally gained the role. Bellamy knew about the basic personal things they’d discussed yesterday, so what she replied wasn’t news. “I used to have a girlfriend, back home,” the blonde began, sitting back and crossing her legs. The audience looked intrigued; the districts were known to be quite conservative with their relationships. This was new. “She’s beautiful. Hi, Lexa. I miss you.” Clarke smiled, and waved at the cameras. Her eyes were flickering, but you couldn’t see unless you really focused, Bellamy thought. “We went through a rough patch. It was a shame, really. Maybe if I make it back, something will spark back up?”

“Hell of an actress,” Wells grinned, satisfied. “I mean, she does miss Lexa, but it’s one hundred percent over. Has been for a long time.”

“Yeah,” Bellamy nodded faintly. That was all he had to say. Clarke stood up, and her hand was thrown up by Alie as if she was victorious already. Not ten seconds later, she appeared behind the curtains.

“How’d I do?” she asked, all statistics.

“Good enough,” Bellamy replied in the same manner. She looked glad, and they collected Cece and Wells to get back to the twelfth floor.

______________________

Tomorrow, it’d be game time. He wasn’t sure how Clarke and Wells were holding up, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask. He sat on his bed, a bottle of scotch at his feet, and took sips from it regularly.

Clarke’s words from last night echoed. He’d do anything for Octavia. She was his sister, his _responsibility_. Yes, he’d protect her at all costs.

And now, a similar scene had come up. But it was Clarke, a girl who’d taken the time to take care of his little sister while he was about to die. If he had died, the smart blonde wouldn’t forget about Octavia. Sure, she was all diplomacy and well-calculated moves, but she had a heart like a force of nature, untamed and not anything to be reckoned with. He could sense it off her. Maybe he could see something of himself in that.

He took another swig from the bottle. He wasn’t flat out drunk, but enough to make stupid decisions. He forbade himself, however, to step out to find her, even if he wanted to go over so badly. He didn’t even know what to tell her. He wanted her to change her mind. But how could he expect that from her? There was no way.

It didn’t help; him telling himself that. In a matter of minutes, he was standing in the living room, pacing in circles in order to keep himself from knocking on her door. Why? Why did any of them even have to die? He wanted to have Clarke _and_ Wells back. And Jasper, and Zoe, and hell, even that Finn guy. They were kids. They didn’t deserve to die. They didn’t deserve to win a game where victory only leads to more hurt.

She would understand, wouldn’t she? No. He was drunk, he realised. He couldn’t do that.

And that’s how he found herself making a beeline for her door, until it flew open and she came out, wrapping a soft cardigan around herself. She skidded to a halt, eyeing him warily. “Bellamy?”

“Clarke,” He was speechless, somehow. She stood there, waiting for an explanation. Slowly, he relaxed. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Right,” she nodded, still studying him. “Are you drunk?”

He was slightly perplexed. “Yes,” he replied, promptly. “You wanna see the roof?”

Her eyebrows drew inward, a frown riddling her face. “There-- We can go to the roof?” she finally asked, and stepped forward towards the door, clearly urging him to guide her.

Kane had showed him. He was so glad it existed, the rooftop from which you could see the entirety of Polis, and even the borders to district seven. He didn’t even realise he’d grabbed her hand until she let it go when the elevator doors opened. Barefoot, she walked through the dark, up to the edge. The lights cast soft shadows on her face. He watched her go, and followed shortly, approaching languidly. When he leaned heavily on the edge, she put a hand to his chest.

“Careful,” she uttered. “You’re drunk, Bellamy. You’ll fall.”

He snorted. “They’ve casted a spell here, princess. They wouldn’t want tributes killing themselves before the Games began.” With those words, he grabbed a pebble from beneath his feet and threw it. When it got zapped back to him, he didn’t manage to catch it. It simply cluttered back onto the roof.

Clarke stared at him for a bit. She finally drew a conclusion: “You’re here with me for a reason, Bellamy, I know you are,” She was right. But the reason wasn’t of any use to her. He couldn’t tell her. “Spit it out.”

He was a fine actor, too, if he wanted to be. “I wanted to thank you still. For Octavia.” That was the best he could come up with. Bellamy leaned an elbow onto the wall in front of him, and rested his chin on his hand. His dark gaze fell on her this way. She looked back with her ocean eyes, which were now puddles of anxiety and worry. He wasn’t even sure who it was for; for herself? For Wells? For Bellamy?

“I believe you’ve already thanked me for that,” she commented, copying his stance, but with both elbows. “and I already said that there was nothing to thank me for. I would’ve continued to do it, you know. If you died.”

He huffed. Of course she would have.

______________________

“I figured,” he muttered in reply.

Bellamy wasn’t here to thank her for Octavia, she knew that. He looked so sad, the way he stood there. In his intoxicated state, he was properly exposed, his eyes showing all emotion he held inside. It gave her an irresistible urge to take care of him. Her instincts cut in, and before she knew what she was doing, she took a step towards him, taking a hold of his free hand.

“You’re going to be okay, Bellamy,” she tried to comfort him.

His eyes wandered for a minute, and she didn’t know whether she had to let go or hold on to him. She wished she’d done the former when he turned back, the pain in his sunken eyes even rougher than before. “But you’re not,” he whispered. “You’re-- They’re just-- letting you die.”

Clarke didn’t consider her answer for too long. “It’s cruel, Bellamy,” she replied, her voice not much louder than his. “It _is_. But we can’t do shit about it.”

Hollow was the only word she could use to describe how he looked right now. “I don’t want to be a part of this, Clarke,” he breathed.

Her thumb rubbed the back of his hand gently, and he pressed back with his fingers. “I know,” she nodded, and stepped a little closer, so that their forearms touched. “but helping Wells is the only thing I ask, okay?”

His eyes flickered. She was only inches away from his face. She could see the color of his eyes in the artificial lights that the city produced. She could count the freckles on his cheeks and nose, trace the lines of his cheekbones down from his temples. In that moment, she suddenly felt like she knew the man, inside and out. Maybe because he was so much like herself.

So she kissed him. Perhaps because it was her very last opportunity to kiss anyone; or because she just really wanted to help him heal. It was both.

He kissed her back, gently unfolding their hands and pressing his to her lower back. She lifted her hand and cupped his jaw, her pinky stroking him under the chin. Shortly after, her other hand went up into his hair, softly messing with his curls as their lips kept in contact. His hands went from her ribs down to her hips, and back up, very slowly. She let go when she felt like they both needed to catch a breath.

She moved away a little, just so she could focus well on his eyes. Her lip dangled between her teeth for a jif, and then she spoke: “I’m dying, Bellamy. If everything goes my way, and even if it doesn’t, I won’t make it back.”

He nodded, not able to counter anything. He looked devastated for a moment. “Can I hold you, Clarke?” His voice cracked, but he didn’t try to repair that. He didn’t need to.

She slumped against the wall, and pulled him down with her. He put an arm around her, and she sank into him.

“I’ll try,” he said, after what seemed like hours. “I’ll make the best of your dying wish.”

______________________

He woke up with his head pounding, and his arms empty. Both were his fault. He’d thought about sleeping on the roof when Clarke’s eyes drooped and she fell in against him, but when she started shivering, he brought her to her room and tucked her in.

She’d kissed him. The only kiss he was ever going to get, because she was going away in less than an hour. And, whether she had it her way or not, she would never come back. It already tore him apart.

He rose quickly, and found her in simple clothing in the living room. She looked up from her breakfast, and shared a reserved smile with him. Her fear was almost audible. Then again, so was Wells's. The boy dug his fork into his toast absently, most definitely not thinking about eating it.

Bellamy lowered himself into a chair. Slowly, because the headache made any swift movement off limits. He didn’t feel like eating, either, but he said: “You two should eat. Not too much, but this might be the last thing you’ll eat in some hours. Maybe the last thing ever. Get some protein and vitamins, you’ll need it.”

They both looked up and down again, and Clarke made an attempt to shovel some egg into her mouth. She chewed halfheartedly, staring at something he couldn’t see. Within the hour, they’d both consumed considerable amounts of fruit and egg. It was also time by then; Bellamy would show them to the hovercraft that would pick them up. He quietly padded after them, urging them to keep walking as they walked towards the rooftop. When they waited for the vehicle to lower itself, and let down the ladder, Bellamy reached for her one last time.

“I’ll see him soon, Clarke,” he offered. He didn’t know what to say; he just wanted to hear her voice, one last time.

She nodded, and inhaled sharply: “You will, Bellamy. I’ll make sure of it,” Clarke replied quietly, her jaw trembling. She averted her eyes for only a second, then met his gaze once more. “May we meet again.”

The ladder came down, and he let her go. She walked, her hips swaying with every step. Her gaze lingered as she was reeled in, and finally, she disappeared into the hovercraft.


	3. 003

_Thirty seconds._

The metallic voice made her even more nervous. Her stylist zipped up her jacket -- probably water resistant, but not too warm -- and tipped her chin so she looked at him straight. “There,” he said, a smile on his face. “All good to go. Go get it now.”

She couldn’t understand how anyone could enjoy the Games. No matter how long she thought on it, she could never grasp it. It seemed like the man was looking forward to it, and she wanted to get as far away from him as she could. She stepped back, swaying the tight French braid back over her shoulder.

_Ten seconds._

Once she entered it, the glass cocoon consumed her, and she could just watch her stylist exit the room before the platform below her feet began to lift her up. Clarke screwed her eyelids shut and waited for the air to touch her skin. She blew on her thumbs and prayed for a forest.

The light shone on her skin, and as she exposed her blue hues to it, they needed some time to adjust. When they did, she could take in her surroundings. A sun in the sky; crunchy leaves around her platform. Trees everywhere; even between her and the next tribute. A forest was what she hoped for; a forest she got. It was a breath of fresh air. A little relief in the chaos.

Across the circle, she spotted Wells. Their gazes met. She’d told him to meet her in whatever direction the Cornucopia faced away from, because it would be the easiest to stick with each other from the start. She blinked, hoping to calm him a little. Her eyes then wandered; the contents of the Cornucopia seemed tempting. Clarke knew that it would probably get her killed, though. Still. It looked good.

She needed a knife. She wasn’t worth much without it. If there was any wildlife or edible plants, she could probably get enough to eat. Clean water would be appreciated, too. And something like a blanket, because the jacket didn’t seem too warm. There was so much she needed to survive, and when she looked at a small backpack, not far from her, she knew she’d go for it. Without a doubt.

When the gong went off, she ran before she realized she did. A short girl from six, Mara or something, came up right beside her. She wasn’t as fast, though, so when Clarke reached the backpack, she picked it up first. Then she swung it around so it’d hit the dark-haired girl in the face, and then she was gone; in the opposite direction of the golden Cornucopia. A tall boy from five followed shortly. He tugged at the backpack, and she almost lost her grip, until she kicked him in the shins, hard and mean. He fell over, and almost immediately got struck in the back by a knife. The young boy from two, Aden, ran over to retrieve the knife. Clarke didn’t hesitate, and continued to sprint, not looking back once. She felt the knife graze her arm, but it didn’t slow her down.

She ran into Wells between the trees, and wanted to grab his hand to run deeper into the forest, but he was hindered by a cut in his calf and something on his other hand. A small figure. It looked like the girl from five, Charlotte, who’d studied the two of them intently during training. She was clawing at Wells with both hands as if her life depended on it. She must’ve been only twelve, maybe thirteen.

Clarke exchanged a glance with Wells, but naturally, she gave in, and simply pulled both of them away from the fray. No need to hang around. They fled between the trees, slid down a hill and splashed through a stream. They wouldn’t have stopped if Clarke hadn’t told Wells to sit down for a second and let her clean the cut on his calf.

Only a few words needed to be exchanged with Charlotte; Clarke knew she’d be faster than the little blonde, so she trusted her with the backpack. “Open it,” Clarke panted, as she looked at Wells’ ankle. “Tell me what we’ve got.”

The sound of the zipper came, and some rummaging. “There’s two knives,” the girl said, and Clarke huffed in relief. “A pair of-- um, socks. A needle and thread. Nylon thread, as well. A--” A pause followed. “--guide to some plants in the Arena. This looks like a small blanket.”

“Give me the plant book,” Clarke ordered, and took it. Her eyes flitted across the first page. “Also, what kind of knives?” She looked around, studying the plants closest to her, and realised she recognized none of them. Gratitude for the book washed over her; this could come in handy. She scanned the pages, looking for something that might work as some kind of antiseptic.

“Double-bladed knives, small,” Charlotte replied. 

Clarke had, by now, found something she could use. “We’re going to be looking for a lot of this,” she told the two others, showing them the picture. “and thank you, Charlotte.”

The younger blonde nodded, and went back to the pack. “I don’t think it’s a blanket,” she muttered, and began to unfold it. “It’s a sweater.” She finally said, sounding delighted.

Clarke wasn’t as happy. Only one sweater, for the three of them. Luckily, they’d be able to keep each other warm at night. She pursed her lips, and went to search the bushes for the plant she needed, when the canons began. She counted along carefully; eight dead. Sixteen left, and only one to come out. That one would be Wells. She already apologized to Charlotte quietly. She found what she’d been looking for and padded back over to her friend at the water’s edge.

“The water’s running faster upstream,” Wells managed to tell her. “It clearly loses its power along the way. We should move there, because it’s probably cleaner, safer to drink.”

Clarke nodded as she rubbed the plant’s juices into the cut. It was a funny plant; the leaves looking a bit like aloe, but far more squishy and juice leaking out as she broke them off the stems. She decided to put one stitch through it, if only to keep it sealed properly. They didn’t have bandages. The decision was easy; Clarke cut a piece out of the thigh high socks and pulled it up to his shin, so it covered the wound perfectly. She did the same for the smaller thing on her arm. Charlotte was unharmed.

Surely, they began to walk upstream, in a brisk pace. They only stopped to conceal themselves once or twice, thinking they heard something. It’d be a false alarm; they continued walking until they reached the waterfall. Wells halted first. He narrowed his eyes. “This is great,” he breathed, and pointed for his two companions to see. Clarke gasped. If you paid attention, you could see the hole behind the growth behind the water. A cave.

They lowered themselves carefully, helping each other out. The path was slippery and the growth was moist, but the cave was dry and empty. Clarke nodded in the dark, and put her backpack on the ground. “We’ll stay here,” she announced. “Wells, we have to take watch at night. We can drink first, and then I’ll go out to set some traps. We need food,” The nylon thread was a gift from the heavens, as far as the Hunger Games was something set up by heaven. Clarke was still thankful, in this situation. “and firewood,” she added.

Wells nodded, and got up. “I’ll get firewood.”

The blonde eyed him for a second, before reaching in the pack for one of the knives and handing it over. “Okay then. Charlotte, you’re with me,” Clarke gestured for the girl.

They went in opposite directions, the pack slung over Clarke’s shoulder. When they were a good distance from the cave, she spoke to the small girl at her hand. “Charlotte, you have to listen to me for a second, okay?”

Another pair of blue eyes, very similar to Clarke’s, stared up at her. “Yeah?”

Clarke worried her lip. “You know that-- Wells and I, we can’t protect you forever, right?”

“Yeah,” was the only response, in a very sad tone. Clarke inhaled sharply, and sank to her knees before the little figure.

She stroked a strand of hair from her forehead. “Hey,” she spoke gently, even though there was no way to put this gently. “It’s just until there’s like... five of us left, maybe. I don’t want to be the one to--” She swallowed, and let her eyes flicker around through the bushes. “--kill you.”

Charlotte nodded. “I know. Nobody thinks I will survive anyway. And my parents are dead,” She heaved a dry sob, her bottom lip trembling. “so there’s nothing for me to live for.”

Looking away was inevitable; Clarke couldn’t see the pain reflected in the girl’s eyes. But she held her hand, and rubbed her thumb along the back, doing that for a while in silence. Finally, she looked back up. “Me neither, Charlotte. I just want to help my friend. He’s given up so much for me... It’s time I return the favor,” She nodded solemnly, and even though every word of it was true, most of it was because she hoped for a nearby camera to see this, and broadcast her through the entire country. This was the typical kind of sentiment that Polis liked, she knew. In the back of her mind, she remembered the winner from a couple of years ago; a fragile girl from district six who’d pretended to be madly in love with the boy from her district. She cried so much when he died, and she’d gotten lucky. Not a day later, she’d won the Games. Clarke smiled sadly. “Let’s go set some traps, Charlotte. We might as well find ourselves something to eat.”

______________________

Clarke was doing marvelously, Bellamy thought. How she held the trembling hand of the girl throughout the forest, and hung traps for smaller and larger animals. They built a fire in the cave so Polis could see where they were at. From that moment, however, they cut to the careers and what they were up to, so Bellamy missed the rest of the rationing plans.

As night fell, Bellamy considered picking up a bottle, but he discarded the idea. He was too invested in what was going on. When the time came to show the fallen of the day, the cameras showed every single tribute watching, with what they were looking at displayed in the corner of the screen. The five careers first; then the boy from three and the girl from eight; the boys from six and seven; the girl from seven; the boy from eight and the girl from ten; the girl from nine; the boy from eleven and finally, the cameras halted at the trio he’d been keeping an eye out for.

At first, he saw only Wells and Charlotte in the cave, the anthem in the background. He furrowed his brows, until Wells called quietly: “Who are they?”

The scene cut to Clarke. She was outside, just peeking from behind the waterfall. She appeared to be on watch. “The girl from three,” she whisper-yelled. “The girl from four, Luna. Oh, there’s Wick, from five,” The camera zoomed in a bit. It was probably on a bug or something. It came close. “Maya from six,” Bellamy could see her bite her lip, but he wasn’t sure why. “Niylah from eight. Myles from nine. The eh-- guy from ten, and Zoe from eleven.”

The screen went back to the girl from nine, Harper, who was struggling to scuff through some mud. She threatened to sink in it, but every time she fell deeper, she managed to pull through and move a little bit towards the shore. Bellamy could almost hear everyone’s gasps throughout Polis, and wondered how long it would take for the gamemakers to start inducing fights.

He didn’t sleep much that night, waiting for his tributes to appear on the screen in front of him. Aside from showing Clarke’s face when Wells came to take her watch, he didn’t see them much. He fell asleep at the break of dawn, and woke up at nine. Nine in the evening, that was. He cursed himself and his stiff muscles as he hurried out of the chair, disoriented. Cece was probably out on the town with the other escorts or maybe some weird friends, so if he wanted to ask anyone who would’ve been awake early to catch this, he knew only one other person. He called her, rubbing a hand to his neck as he anxiously waited for her sharp voice to appear on the other end of the line.

 _“Hello?”_ it finally came.

“O?” he uttered.

_“Bell? That you?”_

“Yeah. I fell asleep at five in the morning, O. Catch me up, please. I know you got up at six,” he urged.

A clipped laugh. _“I was up at six. Nothing happened, big brother. Clarke caught some rabbits, that was impressive. Clarke showed Charlotte how to kill the rabbit. Oh yeah, Clarke and Wells got stuck in some kind of bunker because there was a poisonous fog,”_ Octavia rhymed off.

“Fog?” Bellamy repeated.

_“Yeah, like yellow-ish fog? The girl from nine, Harper, she died from it.”_

“Clarke and Wells made it, though? And Charlotte?”

 _“Yeah, they’re safe,”_ The way his sister spoke, Bellamy could basically see the frown on her face. _“You okay, big brother? No offense, but you didn’t care about the tributes as much last year.”_ Octavia knew that that wasn’t what happened, but Bellamy was glad she addressed it in the way she did.

“I’m fine,” he said, but had a hard time believing much of it. “I just want to bring one of them home.”

_“Either of them?”_

He couldn’t answer that. He _wanted_ one of them, but he’d go for the other. “Yeah,” he finally said, and bit his tongue at how painfully unconvincing he was.

 _“Al-right,”_ Octavia spoke slowly, after a pause. _“If you need me to keep you posted, call me later?”_

“I’ll just set an alarm. Thanks, O.”

Another long pause. _“I love you, big brother.”_

He couldn’t help but smile. “I love you too.”

______________________

Clarke wondered what the gamemakers had tried to achieve with the poisonous gas on the second day of the Games. Only one girl had died. It was Harper, she saw, later that night. That didn’t mean it had been a bad day. They had found another place to hide; it had been an old car, hidden in the earth. Maybe if they were out in the forest sometime, and needed to get to safety, it’d come in handy. She’d taught Charlotte how to kill and skin a rabbit; how to slit the carotid and take the fur off neatly, so that the skin would be intact. She’d thought nothing when the little girl asked whether the method worked for all mammals.

During the third day, another canon went off, near midday. Clarke found herself in the forest at that moment, and she spied her surroundings to make sure it wasn’t anywhere near her. It didn’t appear to be.

At that moment, in the distance through the trees, she could see the yellow clouds rise up over the hills. Her eyes widened. They’d marked the car, and she sincerely hoped it was anywhere nearby. In any case; she began run in opposite direction of the fog. Her breath quickened as she sped ahead, the knife clenched in her fist, praying to a God she didn’t believe in that the car was close. Her legs threatened to topple any second when she saw it. She swooped like a vulture, throwing the car door open and falling to her knees inside. Through the dingy windows, she could make out a form, hunched over in the corner. She wasn’t alone. The door fell shut. She clenched her fist around the hilt of the knife.

The form uttered a laugh. “Well, princess,” it said, and Clarke wanted to groan as she recognized Finn’s features in the dim light. “Looks like we were meant to end up together.”

Clarke furrowed her eyebrows. “Don’t you have a girlfriend back home?”

He huffed out a laugh. “There’s irradiated fog out there,” he pointed. “You think they’re listening to us?” At that moment, a canon boomed through the Arena. “See? They’re not busying themselves with looking at the girl from twelve and the boy from seven in the underground car. It’s the murder they want to see.” He pulled a grim face, and shook a lock of dark hair out of his face.

Clarke wasn’t about to agree gladly, so she picked at his words to say something else. “Irradiated fog, huh? How’d you know?”

Finn shrugged. “I overheard the careers when they found Harper’s body. Aden looked at her, knew something about it. Said it looked like it was caused by radiation.”

Slowly, the blonde nodded. “You’ve been busy, then,” she remarked airily.

“Looking for you,” he winked, and she rolled her eyes and sighed. There was something inside her that hoped Polis was still looking at the dead body that had fallen just a minute earlier. Something even smaller that hoped Bellamy wasn’t thinking she wanted anything to do with this boy.

______________________

Her first hope coming true had made the second hope self-evident. Because Bellamy wasn’t looking at Clarke at that moment. He was staring at the little girl near the cave, and the dead body at her feet. A body he was supposed to bring home alive. He wasn’t angry. He was furious, raging, so wildly that he could nearly see the red. The little bitch was dragging the body into the woods by now, and had slid the knife into his chest more than once. She had her hands covered in blood. It was all on her.

She cried; he saw. He didn’t know what kind of tears they were, and he didn’t care. Clarke would be devastated, and he couldn’t do shit about it. Charlotte. God, he hoped she’d see straight through the little monster. Bellamy had never wanted a child dead, and right now, he didn’t want her to die, but at the same time, that was exactly what she deserved. Clarke was smart. She’d find out. She’d end Charlotte.

And then he remembered. Remembered Miller, Mel, every face flashing in front of his eyes like they did in his dreams. Killing Charlotte wouldn’t help Clarke. It would destroy her even more. Suddenly, Bellamy didn’t know what he wanted. He just wanted to press her against his chest, hold her and tell her that she deserved to win, she had to do it for Wells. He’d tell her that he would’ve saved her friend, if he could. That he was sorry, because he was. He didn’t keep his promise. At that moment, he knew exactly what he had to do.

He emerged from his room and ran to the large theatre on the ground floor, where the mentors gathered whenever their tributes needed something. Bellamy knew what she needed, and he was bound to get it to her.

______________________

Clarke wanted to break it to her other allies slowly, that she made a new one. So she didn’t bring Finn back to the cave at first. She kept low, creeping through the bushes and undergrowth, all the way back to where the roaring of the waterfall began. Before she reached it, she stumbled on a scene that took her breath away. And not in a good way.

First, she saw Charlotte’s back, hunched over and shaking vigorously with her sobbing. Clarke sped up her pace until she could see why. When she did, she sank to her knees as well, not being able to say anything, not even to comfort the young girl. Wells was staring up at them, eyes hard and glazed over. His dark green shirt was riddled with blood and torn in multiple spots. It looked like he’d been in a knife fight. There was a cut in his neck, too, the fatal one, she figured. Charlotte was also covered in blood. This shook something awake in Clarke.

“God, Charlotte, are you hurt?” she looked the girl into the eyes and took both of her arms in her hands, to get a good look at her chest and abdomen. But the little blonde shook her head, her eyes hazy. Clarke nodded, muttered something that resembled her uttering how glad she was about that, and turned back to her friend. Her dead friend; the only one of them who had deserved anything from the start. Clarke’s jaw trembled by then, and a tear began to trickle down her cheek. It fell on his shoulder. She bent over, so she was only inches from his face.

“ _You were supposed to go home!_ ” she hissed, and finally dissolved into sobs as she held him between her hands. Wells was gone. Wells was gone and she hadn’t even made it up to him. Not in any way that mattered. She was still in debt with him.

After, well, too long, she rose to her feet. Clarke laid her fingers over his eyelids and pushed them to a close. She stroked his fingers, and spoke in a hoarse voice: “In peace, may you leave the shore. In love, may you find the next,” She swallowed, and looked to her little companion for support, but Charlotte didn’t offer any. She just stared. So Clarke went on. “Safe passage in your travels, until our final journey to the ground.” Clarke released his hand, put hers over her heart and held Charlotte’s with the other. “May we meet again.”

The smaller blonde just nodded.

______________________

Clarke made another futile attempt to wash what was left of the bloodstains out of Charlotte’s clothes. The girl sat near the fire with Finn, only her jacket around her shoulders. John had come by, she’d managed to tell Clarke. The male tribute from district one had killed Wells. And now, Clarke was going to kill John Murphy, with whatever it took. If there was anyone she needed dead, it was him. But not right now, Finn had told her. She needed to grieve. Maybe he was right.

She was kind of glad he showed up. He could speak to Charlotte in a friendly manner while she sat outside and stared the fake moon out of the sky. She looked away from the anthem when it played, not wanting to see the perfect picture of her friend. Her blue hues were forced back up when a familiar tingle echoed right above her. Clarke stood, taking a few steps and accepting the package eagerly, the parachute flopping over the small tin. She screwed it open, and discovered a small flashlight and a set of batteries. Clarke frowned. They didn’t particularly need a flashlight. “Thank you,” she whispered at the sky, in spite of her slight confusion. There was a small piece of paper attached. _Change batteries later_ , it said, in large block letters. Clarke nodded, to no one in particular, and went back inside.

Her dreams were flooded with blood that night. It just kept pouring, and no matter how she tried to stop it, it would find a new way to wash out of the hole. “Stop it!” she yelled. “Please!” but it didn’t work. Wells was dying. It was her fault. She hadn’t been there, and now, there wasn’t anything worth fighting for.


	4. 004

She was up early, and when she announced she was on her way to make sure somebody would kill John Murphy, Finn countered that there was no way she’d be going alone. So the two of them left Charlotte in the cave with enough rations for two days, just to be sure, and set off towards the Cornucopia.

Since it hadn’t taken them three hours to get to the waterfall, it didn’t take them long before they reached the spot where they’d sat down, about four days ago. _With Wells_ , Clarke thought. She grimaced. Finn urged her to keep moving.

Finn managed to tell her that the careers had set up camp in the Cornucopia, and that the poisonous gas didn’t reach into the golden horn, but seemed to emerge from the tribute platform surrounding it, chasing into the forest. They hid behind a bush that Clarke managed to identify in her book. The roots were poisonous and led to a slow and painful death, it said. As Finn breathed out more information that could be of use, she was thinking of ways she could shove them down John’s throat.

“--the fog appears when the sun is at its highest point, for as far as I’ve seen,” Finn finished, when Clarke began to dig her knife into the roots of the bush. He frowned. “What are you--”

He couldn’t finish. Clarke’s head snapped up at him, and she halted in her prodding. “It isn’t midday yet, is it?” she asked.

Finn shook his head slowly.

Clarke carefully twisted the blade, dug for one of the socks and wrapped the knife in it, tucking it into one of the small pockets of the bag. “You up for a run?”

His eyebrows knitted together even deeper. “Why?”

“We’re going to get John out of his camp before that time. And then we’re going to run, and then we’re going to ditch his ass somewhere while we find our way back to the car.”

“That’s bold, princess,” he whispered, looking a little scared. Then, his eyes hardened. “The car’s far out.”

“You have a better idea?” she snapped.

He was quiet for a second, and then a glint appeared in his eyes. “I know just the place.”

______________________

If only she’d checked the batteries immediately. If only she’d seen the letter he’d put there for her. Instead, she stood at the edge of the treeline, yelling at John Murphy, out where anyone could hear or see her. He couldn’t do much but watch as she did. He was stuck with the other former Victors now, in case she needed another message from him. Not that she got it. The cameras took turns following her as she and her newest ally sprinted away from the two boys behind them. Bellamy had disliked Finn, but at least he was on Clarke’s side. For real, it appeared.

The whole room held their breaths as they traversed the forest. Alie Light was talking over it as if it were a sport. To them, it was. Bellamy wanted to throw up every time he reminded himself of that fact. He held it in, however, and bit his lip, knowing that her reading the message or not, wouldn’t matter anymore. Maybe this was the end. He could join up with the mentors from nine and ten, whose tributes had all died already. But Bellamy had to believe that Clarke could make it out alive. That he didn’t have to do it alone. That he breaking his promise didn’t mean her breaking hers, even though she had every right to forget about him.

He closed his eyes when Alie called out: “It’s midday! For John, Atom, Clarke and Finn, that means; they need to find shelter very soon. The careers can’t return to their camp now. How will they solve this?”

Not a minute later, she called: “It looks like John is taking a dive into the caves! Atom is bravely chasing after Finn and Clarke still!” It was followed by: “Atom, however, finds himself alone! Finn and Clarke have ducked into the bunker!”

Bellamy let out a shuddering breath, blinking his eyes open. He stared at his feet through his lashes. She’d made it, for now.

______________________

Finn shut the entrance behind them, and she let out a heavy sigh, falling to her knees. It was pitch dark in the space, and she silently thanked Bellamy for the flashlight. When she clicked it on, though, no light came out. She remembered his note, and fumbled around in her pack until she found a battery. Blindly changing them was a challenge, but not impossible. She didn’t expect to find a slip of paper in her hand as she did, though. Frowning in the dark, she left it between her fingers as she pressed the battery in the light, and flicked it on.

“What’s that?” Finn whispered as she unfolded the piece of paper. The same block letters covered it, much more messy than they had been on the other note.

_Clarke--_

_It’s Charlotte. Charlotte killed Wells. I really hope no cameras are watching right now, I could be executed for writing this. Remember you’d have something to come back to, I promise. Do it for Wells. He wanted you to live._

_May we meet again,  
Bellamy_

After reading it, Clarke quickly crumpled the paper in her fist. She turned off the light.

“What was on it?” Finn demanded.

“Somebody just left the instructions in,” Clarke said, and she knew that Polis’ cameras could see in the dark, so she said it as casual as possible. She remained seated on the floor, trying to wrap her head around what she just read. She’d just taken a life-- no, two lives. Only for them to turn up innocent in her friend’s murder. It had been Charlotte. The girl who was sitting in their cave, eating their food. She didn’t even know how to break it to Finn without sounding suspicious to the audience.

Shoving the piece of paper into her pocket, she considered her options. All of them, one by one. Finn attempted to make conversation, but she cut him off one time and ignored him the next. This required good thought, and the darkness and silence made it possible.

Finn mentioned, at some point, sounding a little discouraged, that they could probably exit the bunker. Clarke reacted immediately, swinging the backpack over her shoulder and gripping the ladder. She felt a hand on her shoulder. “This the best idea?”

She looked back, but didn’t see him. Clarke climbed some steps, and tossed open the hatch, so they bathed in light. “Let’s go, Finn. Charlotte’s waiting for us.” She attempted to smile, but it wasn’t anywhere near as warm as she wanted it to be. Not awaiting his approval, she climbed the last steps, to freeze at the sound of a very feminine scream.

She cringed. It was Charlotte, she could hear as much. Clarke swallowed her new knowledge, and looked at Finn. “That’s Charlotte,” she uttered.

He pulled her sleeve. “Come on, then!” They began to move in the direction of the sound.

She didn’t have time to think about whether she wanted this or not. If she considered everything, she’d love to leave the little monster to the wolves. Or whatever, whoever else would find her. Just not someone like Finn, who’d try to comfort her. She didn’t have the luxury of just telling Finn that Charlotte killed Wells; she’d expose Bellamy. And she owed him by now, and there was no way she wouldn’t make it up to him, too. Maybe that was exactly what kept her running at all.

They found Charlotte standing by a body, again. But this time, she couldn’t have done it. The body was riddled with blisters, blood and sweat. His eyes were glazed over with white; the radiation had blinded him. Clarke bit her lip. Atom. The career from district four. She looked from him to Charlotte. “What are you doing here, Charlotte?” she snapped, even more venomous than she meant to.

“I-- I was looking for you,” she stuttered.

“Clarke,” Finn urged. “Can you-- Can you--?” His gaze was fixed on the body on the floor.

_Could she save him?_ No, she couldn’t. She knew that. This was beyond her reach; far beyond it. In silence, she fell to his side, and dug in her pack. She could hear his whispers.

“Kill me,” he breathed, and for a second, she believed it was her head messing with her. But who was she kidding? “Kill me.”

Clarke gritted her teeth, and slowly retrieved the knife from the pack. She unwrapped it from the sock, and softly hummed as she held it in her steady hand. This was clinical, a mercy kill. She’d done it before. But he was a kid. She killed him. The lullaby in her throat sounded a little like _All the little horses_ , she realized; something her mother used to sing to her. It felt nothing but perfectly in place, as she shoved the knife into the carotid. Just as Charlotte had done to Wells, only a day ago. It felt like years.

The canon sounded. She whispered. May we meet again. Not the full goodbye, because she didn’t know him. And she didn’t deserve to say goodbye to him. Not when she did this to him. All in vain. All because she wanted misplaced revenge. Suddenly, her heart raged, and she felt the need to growl. She did, and clenched her fists. “Now, we’re killing John. I haven’t heard another canon, so he’s still out here. The bastard.”

When Finn looked hesitant, she almost grinned. Exactly what she needed. “He _killed_ Wells, Finn!”

“No!” Charlotte cried, and Clarke’s stomach turned. “John didn’t kill Wells, Clarke. I did.”

They both stared at her in disgust, but Finn’s eyes also held surprise. Clarke’s didn’t. She wanted to seem surprised, though. “What?!”

“I wanted to go out for John to find me, but I found him first,” A trembling finger went out to Atom’s body. “I’m so sorry, Clarke... He just-- He looked so much like--” Her voice broke, and Clarke almost felt sorry for the girl. Almost. “--like the man who had my parents killed.”

“Well, he’s not the same person, Charlotte!” she hissed, truly expressing her anger about it by now. Clarke was shaking with it. It ruled her for once, and without even realizing it, she traversed the space between them and would’ve pierced her with the small knife if Finn hadn’t thrown the course of her hand off. 

“Clarke!” he yelled, and she came to her senses, dropping the knife. For a minute, she just stared at Charlotte, her hand closing around the paper in her pocket tightly. She finally unclenched her jaw.

“We should get back to the waterfall before dusk,” and that was it. She would figure it out later. In her ear, Bellamy was whispering. He wasn’t really, but it felt like he did. _Come home._

______________________

Bellamy wasn’t whispering it, either, but he was thinking it. And now that every plan Clarke had made had been thrown off, he could admit it out loud. Because of course he would’ve settled for Wells; God, he just needed someone, anyone, to take his place. But he felt like, with Clarke, he could do it together. Right now, he needed that. He wanted her at his side. He called Octavia, later that evening, and talked to her about losing Wells, and then about the letter. He lowered his voice for that story. She, Clarke and himself would be the only ones hearing about that. Ever.

It happened maybe two hours after that. Charlotte chose to plunge herself down the waterfall, face first. She was dead at impact, the canon sounding to signify her death. Clarke seemed angry; a little sad, perhaps, but she barely cried. As she did, she told Finn to just leave her alone for sometime. Bellamy wanted to send her another letter, to tell her that this wasn’t her fault, but it wasn’t the end either, and she needed to let Finn go. It was too risky, though. He didn’t write her anything. He just watched, as the mentor from district five left the room, her head hung. Later that night, around two am, he could say goodbye to the mentor from district three as well, when the boy named Connor had succumbed to an awful disease that the gamemakers had probably created.

He fell asleep around that time, waking up at seven. The mentor from seven; a woman with sharp features who’d won just two years before he did, was there to catch him up. She said, with pride in her voice, that Finn had set up a plan to bomb the careers’ camp. He’d made friends with a boy from six earlier on, and planned to find him, since he was a chemical genius. “They could reactivate the landmines,” Anya seemed to approve of the plan, but Bellamy wasn’t sure about it. It sounded dangerous, and he hoped Clarke knew what she was doing. He didn’t get to see her, though.

There was a fight on the other end of the Arena, between Emori from one, and Gustus from eleven. They were both good, but Emori had been training for this her whole life. When he ducked, she rolled onto his back with very little effort, and came up behind him to chase the knife into his side. He defended himself the best he could, but it went downhill from there. Shortly after, a canon went off to honor him, leaving Emori to stumble back to her camp. She was only meters away when the poison fog came in, and stopped her heart from beating on.

When John found her, he was angry. A fiery anger, that left his body trembling and filled with screams, shaking to be let out. The cameras caught him banging against the hot iron of the horn. Bellamy knew that kind of anger. It was the kind that came from a sadness that shook the core. But he couldn’t feel bad for the boy from district one; he wasn’t innocent. He’d put down the girl from six and the boy from ten on the first day. To tell him he had a choice would be unfair, but he had seemed happy about it, and there was no excuse for being happy about killing a child, Bellamy would say, with a pointed look to Polis.

______________________

Bellamy turned out to be right, because Clarke hadn’t agreed to blow up anything. If it were up to her, she’d sit and wait until everyone killed each other. But Polis wouldn’t let that happen. So she traipsed after Finn, to the place where he had seen Jasper last. After a while, she noticed how Finn checked for broken branches and footsteps. She followed suit, curiously watching his every move. “Can you track him?” she finally whispered.

Finn gave her a lopsided smirk. “My mom taught me some when I was younger. Jasper’s walked here a couple times, see?”

She looked down, let her blues wander past the deep tracks in the mud. Finn was right. The tracks were clearly visible, as if he’d trampled his way down the road multiple times. The footsteps led them ahead. Clarke nodded, a little absent-mindedly, and continued to follow him. Her eyes trailed along the floor as she did, only occasionally shooting past the undergrowth around them. Jasper. From six. The blonde made an attempt to recall his face and posture, but as she tried, she didn’t put together a heavy figure that was intimidating enough to leave footprints like this. He had to be unafraid, in order to leave this kind of trail.

“There!” Finn said, and through the trees, a metal kind of building came into view. He stepped up the pace, so Clarke did, too. But her eyes were on the ground. Jasper had been a lanky boy, with an innocent face and a flee-rather-than-fight attitude. And then she realized; there were about four trails leading there, but none leading back.

“Finn,” she breathed, running to keep up. They’d reached the building, and Finn skidded to a halt, so she ran into him. “Finn, we’re--” But she saw.

God, she saw.

The boy was pinned to the wall of the metal building -- which looked a bit like a hovercraft -- with a spear. His eyes were wide as he stared down on the pole. They hadn’t heard any new canons. When did this happen? The blood pooling around it looked fresh. _The canon, when was the canon?_ No, wait. The blood was _spreading_ still.

Clarke’s feet were moving before she knew she wanted them to. She walked onto the laid out hatch of the -- what should she call it? A ship? It had thrusters, like a hovercraft. She doubted their ability to keep the building flying, at this point -- and inspected the body with shaking hands. His breathing was shallow, but there. Whoever hit him, they must’ve missed his heart by only an inch.

“Clarke--” Finn’s voice was hesitant when he spoke.

She turned, and there they were. The dark girl from two, and John. He held a girl that was unknown to her; she had a knife to Finn’s throat. Clarke watched him as he swallowed hard. The young, auburn-haired boy rested behind them, his eyes blazing. She rested her back against the wall unwillingly. It gave her a little support.

“Well, there you are,” John spoke drily. “The two who led Atom and me into a trap. Probably did the same to Emori, huh?”

“We didn--” Finn was cut off as the girl forced the knife tighter on his throat.

Clarke knew there was no use in denying it. Even if they hadn’t killed Emori. It must have been the canon in the afternoon, during the fog. It _was_ the trap John was talking about. Her jaws were stuck to each other. She didn’t plan on speaking, and when she didn’t, John continued. He was making the typical speech that took too long before something actually happened. She was glad she didn’t listen, because if she did, she would’ve missed it.

“On the table,” a voice rasped. It only took her a second before she realized that the boy on the wall still spoke. His head had tipped forward, and his eyes fluttered slightly under his eyelids. “The--” He gasped, choked on something and coughed. Blood oozed from his mouth. “--wires. The b- The board.”

“Oh look!” the career girl called, through gritted teeth. “He’s still alive.”

“On the board,” he breathed. “then--” He needed to breathe in again, but he barely could. “hatch.”

_What does it do?_ Clarke wanted to ask. But she couldn’t. He was on his last breath, and she couldn’t ask him out loud. She looked at the hatch, and frantically scanned the wall around it for something to close it. There was no way it needed to be lifted by hand, right?

“What are we doing, Murphy?” the girl asked, annoyed. 

“Waiting, Indra. The little princess wants to save everyone, Aden said. So, she’ll come out soon,” John stared right at her as he spoke. She wondered, quietly, how everyone found the exact same nickname for her. But she shook the thought as she spotted a lever on the wall. She had no clue what she would do with it. She hoped it’d release some kind of gas that would leave them unconscious, or something. It was a prayer, really; nothing in the Games was innocent.

It only took her a few quick motions in succession. In one, she’d pulled the lever, and the hatch began to close. In the second, she’d put two steps in the direction of the table. A canon went off during those, and she prayed it was the boy on the wall. In the third, she’d taken both wires into her hands and pressed them to the board, sparking electricity. A roaring rose up from the belly of the ship.

______________________

Another canon, and the picture of the girl from seven was shown in the corner of the screen. He saw Anya frown as it happened, but Bellamy wasn’t exactly looking at her. He was looking at the flames as they consumed the flesh of the young boy from two, and licked at Finn’s legs. Screaming. Another canon; Aden’s face flashed in the corner.

The screen showed Clarke, wide-eyed in the abandoned ship. He could see her jaw clench at the angle from which the camera saw her. He could practically hear her thoughts screaming: _what have I done?_ The scene continued outside, where Finn had somehow doused the flames after they melted the skin off his arms and the flesh off his kneecaps. A scaly burn on his cheek and jaw riddled his undeniably handsome face. He was crawling, dragging through the wet dirt. “Clarke,” he called, his voice rough but determined.

The cameras followed Indra and Murphy; the latter supporting his companion. Finn had struck her in the leg with his knife in an attempt to escape when the hatch closed. He raised his head at the call in the distance, but they kept moving forward, toddling all the way to the Cornucopia.

______________________

“Clarke!” she heard, a second time, and she didn’t hesitate. Her shaking hand hit the lever -- it took some effort -- and the wait until the hatch fully opened was painful. When it sloped just low enough for her to climb, she did, jumping down the last couple feet. Her ankle slipped beneath her, and it rolled, but she ignored it. She reached Finn in seconds.

“Hey, hey,” With both hands, she pushed him back, rolling him on his side, then on his back. The right leg of his pants, as well as the sleeve, were fully burnt away. As soon as she inspected the gaping holes in his flesh, she knew that it would be the death of him. He groaned with every move. His eyes flickered from her to where her hands hovered on the burns. His eyes flickered in general. “Hey, stay with me.”

“Princess,” he uttered, heaving his breaths as if the dirt beneath his body had found a way into his lungs. “please.”

Her fists clenched and unclenched as he pushed the knife forward. The same knife she’d dug into the poisonous roots, two days before. It had fresh blood.

Clarke must have had a questioning look on her face, because Finn whispered: “I hit Indra with it. Do you reckon the poison--?”

The blonde nodded, dumbfounded. The blade in her hand didn’t belong there. She carried a blade more often, sure. A scalpel. Meant to heal. But this one was different. It was made to kill. Exactly what Finn expected of her. Their hands brushed. He blinked reassuringly.

Her hand closed around the hilt. She then tilted his body upward, even though he protested thoroughly. She leaned him against her knee as she embraced him, the best she could. With her other hand, she shoved the blade into his stomach, up under his ribs.

His head fell back onto her arm. “Thanks, princess.” A faint smile hovered on his lips, and then he was gone. The canon went off.

______________________

Clarke was on her own now, and it made Bellamy anxious. She couldn’t hide from the careers in the waterfall; they’d made it clear that they had been spying on them. Aden, at least. She wasn’t safe around there. She climbed the rocks behind the waterfall, and followed the river further upstream until she found a cave. It was a fine hideout, with a lot of corners in the back where even the cameras didn’t reach, and some growth outside that hid it from the public eye. But she couldn’t stay forever. Four tributes left. The fight would soon be driven to a central spot.

Clarke was one of the last four. Unsurprisingly, the other three included Indra and Murphy, the two remaining careers, and Dax, a boy from eight that had been quiet throughout the Games so far. No one had so much as looked at him so far; no one had expected him to get here. But then again, no one had looked out for Clarke when she started out.

Sponsors rooted for Clarke, Bellamy noticed. He got to send her a gift, that night. A package of dried fruits and some kind of brace. Alie concluded that afternoon that Clarke might have a broken ankle, but the adrenaline would keep her going. She’d been chewing on some leaves that relieved pain, and she’d subdued the swelling in the stream. Luckily, some sponsors realized that just adrenaline and some plant just wouldn’t suffice.

He wrote a small note: _Thought you might need this._ He wanted to write that he’d see her soon, but stopped himself. No need for her to think about him. Maybe she’d come back. Maybe she’d regret the kiss by now; after all, she thought she was going to die when she first did it. Maybe she’d forgotten. Bellamy, however, hadn’t, even though he had been the one who was drunk at the moment. Now, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He didn’t even want to think about it. There were so many more important matters at hand. But alas, it kept offering itself in his head. He couldn’t help it.

A new canon, indicating that the poison would have reached Indra’s heart. Her fierce eyes stared at him from the screen, having lost their fire just seconds ago.

Clarke had been crying for a while. She’d been very discreet, but Polis’ cameras saw everything. He wanted to yell, to let them give her a minute, but he knew that it didn’t work like that. His face had been broadcasted throughout the country when he cried after Miller was struck with an arrow. 

With a watery smile, she accepted her parachute, later that day. The brace fit perfectly, and supported her somewhat. In a small voice, she spoke: “This is well appreciated,” her eyes fixed on the camera in the cave wall. While she did this, Bellamy shared his best smirk with a sponsor on the other side of the glass. They looked utmost intrigued. Clarke hobbled a bit, collecting some small animals from the traps she set earlier. Near the end of the day, it started to cool visibly. She had a fire going, nibbling the last flesh off some bone, but was still shivering to the point where Polis could hear her teeth chatter.

In the mean time, John and the other tribute sat in their respective hideouts, doing the exact same thing. They were turning down the heat. Why?

Later that night, they showed Clarke again. She lay on her side, staring into the night. Bellamy was glad that this was at a time where most of the sponsors had gone to bed. She was shattered. Anyone could see.

Only someone who'd been in the same position could understand.


	5. 005

By the time Clarke woke up, her tears were frozen. So was the stream, it seemed. The gamemakers were going for slippery and freezing; she figured it was to keep them moving. And if these gamemakers were anything like those from every other year before, there was a certain spot in the Arena where it wasn't as ice cold. That was where the fight would take place.

Usually, this would be the Cornucopia. This year, Clarke doubted it. The golden horn had been a safe haven, mostly, except for the bloodbath. It was safe from the radiation mist, and held all kind of supplies. No, it would probably be somewhere else. Once she stepped outside, she could see exactly where. The entire Arena seemed to be covered in a thick layer of snow. Everywhere but one mountain. She could see it from where she stood; it was a little back towards the place where at least Murphy hid. Clarke knew nothing about the other remaining tribute, so he could totally pass by her shelter. She sat back at the entrance of the cave, considering her options and cooling her ankle before carefully tightening the brace. That mountain was either the end or her survival. Either way, she didn't feel like she was winning.

There was one thing, maybe. Bellamy. She'd made a promise to Bellamy. One she needed to keep. It also occurred to her that she _had_ kissed him, and that came back to her, time and time again. Clarke couldn't even be sure that he'd wanted her to do that, but the thought of maybe, one day, somehow, getting to do that again; it kept her going.

After snacking on a few dried rations he'd sent down the night before, she decided that she'd end up on that mountain anyway, whether that was right now or in the near future. Being first also meant she had the high ground. Going right away; it was her best bet.

There wasn't much to pack up; her pack was lighter without the sweater in it, and she'd put whatever was left of the extra socks on her hands. The brace and her shoes offered plenty of support, so she was only limping slightly as she took off. 

Clarke made a mental note to herself to not touch her face with her hands as she dug both knives into the same roots she'd found a few days ago. It was a way to play it safe; the same thing she'd done in her private session with the gamemakers. She knew she wasn't always accurate. This way, a hit in the leg would be lethal anyway.

Her leg was really throbbing by the time the forest thinned out. She stood near the edge of an open field that appeared to surround the mountain. The mountain was rather a huge hill, which sloped down way deeper on one side, until it cut off and became some kind of cliff. Water ran below. As Clarke began to traverse the field, her eyes scanned the area every five seconds. She was most vulnerable out there. The knife rested in the pocket of her jacket. It seemed smarter; she appeared unarmed, so there was no chance that any attacker could take it as they stormed at her.

______________________

The cameras switched between the remaining tributes. They each had their own troubles; Murphy hadn't gotten away from the explosion without a nasty burn to his hand, Dax had fallen ill due to the extreme drop in temperature and Clarke's limp was growing more obvious with the second. She still had some of the painkiller leaves, but the walk towards the mountain was heavy on the bone.

To quote Alie, the change in temperature would test the tributes as they trekked towards the only mountain in the area that radiated enough heat to wear the ice off. The final battle. Bellamy remembered his own; the last showdown with the career from four and a girl from six, who had been hiding the entire time. She was dead before he arrived at the only remaining lake; dehydration had driven him there. He fought the girl from four, her having advantage in the water, but he still managed to overpower her. He prayed that Clarke would come out alive. She made it this far, after all.

She was the first to arrive in the field, but Dax was on her heels. The quick succession with which the screen showed Clarke and Dax, told Bellamy that they were so close that a fight could take place. Murphy was a few miles out, luckily.

A flying camera, made to look like a bug, flew up beside Clarke. It showed her determined face as she hobbled onward, straight for the mountain. She was nearly at its root when she was stopped. An overhead shot showed Dax running up to Clarke. He tackled her, threw her on her back, and locked in her legs and arms.

Her eyes went wide before the camera. Bellamy's fists clenched at his sides.

______________________

Clarke was thrown off by the sudden attack. For a second, she just stared at the long face that grinned down on her, raising a knife in front of her eyes. Then she acted on the brief release of her arm, holding it up in front of her face. The blade struck her lower arm as it came down, but halted at her face, just grazing her lip, where it would've sliced her neck. Wide-eyed, she gawked at his face before spitting in his eyes. When some of it came down, she was prepared and threw her head to the side. He was slightly disoriented, so she folded her knees to her chest, mainly desperate to get him away from her.

Clarke came out successful, crawling away from him and rising to her feet.

He tossed a knife, grazing her shoulder. She took a leap forward while he was still on his knees. Luckily, the knife was easily taken from her pocket, and she could shove it into his side. It happened in a blur. His collision with the floor seemed to go in slow-motion. He lay there, panting, and she was considering to lean down and finish it when his body stopped heaving. A canon boomed through the Arena.

Clarke retrieved the knife, and continued to walk, uphill this time. In the mean time, she examined herself. The cut in her right shoulder was shallow, and she was a lefty. She could deal with it. The cut in her lower arm was deeper. Wrapping her fingers over the split skin, she was too late to realise that the socks still carried the poison. She stopped dead in her tracks.

"Oh, shit," she hissed, releasing her arm. A tingling sensation began a second later.

"Warm welcome," a voice came in.

She swiveled on her heel. There he was, blood like warpaint on his cheeks. Clarke worried her lip, trying to maintain a steady stance. Her fingers clenched around the hilt of the blade in her hand. "Well deserved," she muttered, not really anything he should've heard. 

He did anyway. "Of course," he nodded. "When I heard that canon, I was hoping it'd be that other guy. If there's anything I deserve, it's for me to kill you."

Uneasy, she shifted her weight a bit. "Why's that?"

"Emori should've come out of here, princess. Not me. But you killed her, so I'll kill you. To honor her, alright?"

Like he was really asking. She tapped a finger on the hilt, impatiently. "I didn't kill her." How a boy like him could actually feel something for anyone; she could wonder about that forever.

"Oh yeah," he huffed out a laugh. "Of course you didn't." With those words, John cracked his neck, and began to approach her.

That was enough, Clarke decided. She stumbled back, breaking into a run. Panting, she climbed in front of him. He'd catch up, for sure. When she toppled over into the snow, she looked back, fear in her eyes. He was close. Quickly, she flipped the blade between her fingers, and she threw.

Maybe he could've avoided it, but he hadn't seen it coming. The blade planted itself in his thigh, and he fell with a yelp. This gave her time to scramble to her feet, speeding away as fast as her ankle could carry her.

"You can't hide forever, Clarke!" she heard him call, as she disappeared at the treeline on the hill.

______________________

"She made it far," someone said.

Bellamy knew whose voice it was; there was only one other mentor left. It was Pike, a guy from one who was maybe five years older than him. He mentored John Murphy, the only other remaining tribute. And it seemed that neither of them would last much longer. Alie had pointed out that both tributes had certain amounts of poison in their blood. The poisoning could be cured in Polis, so either of them could still make it out. Alie kept the audience in the dark about who was most likely to die first if no fight took place, even though multiple citizens pleaded over the studio phone.

Bellamy didn't take his eyes off of the screen. "She's smart," he said curtly, his voice low.

"As far as poisoning yourself is a smart move," Pike scoffed. 

Unimpressed, Bellamy shot him a glance. "She poisoned John, too," he growled. "Don't forget that he could still die before she does."

"Right," The mentor from one was equally unimpressed. "Don't worry, Blake. She'll come back to you. In a coffin, sure, but she'll come back. John's too much of a survivor."

Bellamy had spent so much time trying to avoid thinking about Clarke's dead body, that the thought was a stab to the chest. It was as if this man reopened every scar on his body; from the lines on his back from lashes he was given at fourteen for stealing food, to the tear in his shoulder where the axe had split his skin and collarbone during his last fight in the Arena. Without thinking, he rose to his feet and gave into his instinctive response to pain; fighting back.

Pike didn't back away from any fight, so he went along with it, punching right back. It took the peacekeepers less than a minute to tear them apart.

Staggering away from the dark man in front of him, Bellamy pressed his wrist to his split eyebrow. He held eye contact with his opponent until the peacekeepers pulled him from the room completely.

It took but minutes for Dante Wallace to appear, shaking his head in disapproval. "You're Victors, Mr. Blake. You should know to behave yourself."

Bellamy retrieved his arm from the grip the peacekeeper had on it. He rubbed it. "Excuse my actions, president Wallace," he growled through gritted teeth.

"This can't be accepted," Dante shook. "You'll be suspended from watching."

A brick fell in his stomach. "W-What?"

"Until it ends, Mr. Blake. You'll be notified," With those words, the president was on his way. He had better things to do.

______________________

Clarke had made herself a spot in the undergrowth near the very top of the mountain. She'd washed her hands in some soft snow, rubbed some of the leftover antiseptic plant into the cuts and stitched them together. But the poison was in her blood. She could feel it as it burned through her arm and into her shoulder. It was endlessly painful, even though only a small amount had entered her bloodstream.

She swallowed. Her throat had gone dry, although she'd forced some water down on her way up, from a steady stream of melting snow that ran downhill. Her head throbbed and her ankle did nothing less. Every movement made her head spin. Not much longer.

Dusk set in when she heard it. A soft shuffling, gradually growing louder. After a while, she could hear him pant. The growth around her was thick enough for him to miss her completely. But even if it hadn't been, she wasn't sure he could've spotted her.

He looked as bad as she felt, heaving with every step, as if he was going to puke. He groaned with every slight motion, falling to his knees, only a few feet from where she hid.

If she wanted to, she could put an end to his misery. But then again, he carried a massive resolve. If she appeared, maybe he'd still murder her on his last shot of adrenaline and energy. Of course, that would lead to a certain death.

Clarke shook her head when she got another good look at him. It had probably taken all of that hard determination to drag himself up here. She could win this still.

It took all of her might to get up on her knees. Every move she made had to be steadied with every muscle in her body. Her surroundings revolved around her. Knife in her shaking hand, she stepped towards his body, cautiously. "I guess you were right," she croaked. "I can't hide forever." A cough rattled her body, making it shake so violently that she wasn't certain she would stay on her feet.

"Hm, hm," John mumbled, and that was when Clarke knew that she could end this. He didn't acknowledge her presence at all. 

She sank to her knees, her eyes clenched shut to keep the floor from hitting her in the face. "Your fight is over," she mumbled, jamming the knife into his body.

She certainly hoped she hit him in the chest. She could barely retrieve the blade before the grass rose up to meet her cheek. Her eyesight faded. The last thing she she heard was a boom in the distance.

______________________

Isolation wasn’t doing him any good. So far, he’d managed to keep his cool, but he sat on a chair in the blinded room with his head in his hands and his legs shaking. She could be dead. She could’ve died and there would be no way he’d know. He would get to rewatch her death on the screen later when John Murphy sat next to his mentor with a smug look on his face. His jaw ticked, he rubbed his hands together. He was preparing himself to accept her mangled body as it was lowered into the coffin. He pressed hard on his eyelids as he thought about the mayor and Abigail Griffin as they would sink to their knees at their children’s graves. Clarke was dead. He was alone. Again.

Faint noise came from outside. He rose to his feet, even though it would have little real effect. Briskly, he paced up to the door and back away from it. He repeated this a few times before the door flew open in his face. Shocked, he toddled back a few steps, looking into the grim face of a peacekeeper. “It’s over.”

That was all. There was no announcement of his Clarke surviving or dying. But those words sounded everything like; she lost. There’s nothing left for you here.

Dumbfoundedly, he followed the peacekeepers. They didn’t hold his arms, he simply had to walk behind them as they led him through the halls. He passed the glass with sponsors, where people were both angry and relieved. Bellamy wasn’t sure who they were celebrating for. Alie was visible on the screen. He couldn’t make out what she was saying.

The peacekeepers led him upstairs, and he was certain that it was where he would receive both dead bodies. He steeled himself, putting a lock on his throat, only to keep himself from throwing up when he saw them. But he didn’t get pulled to the roof. They directed him into a different room. He stopped in the doorframe. Behind the glass, there she was.

His hands began to shake when he saw. Her face pale and blood caked on her cheeks and bared arms. A man in pure white ran towards her as she shouted things to others in robes of clinical blue. The shouts sounded faint against the one thing that Bellamy wanted to hear. The steady, slow beep that signified a heartbeat. He stumbled forward, pressing his nose to the glass. She was alive. Clarke was alive. She survived the Games.

______________________

When she woke up, the beep in her ears didn’t help with the headache that pounded against her skull. Gritting her teeth, she huffed out some air from her nose and attempted to push herself back. That goddamn beep. Everything could have been nice without it. The soft cloud she sat on, the heat against her right arm... Death didn’t seem so bad, she figured. That was before she saw the light. Blinking her eyes open, the fluorescent lights nearly blinded her. A groan came over her lips. Her head fell sideways, and she could see what kind of heat rested against her arm. It was Bellamy. He was sleeping soundly, resting his cheek against the cloud. She smiled softly. At least he was here.

No. Wait. Her eyelids fluttered. Her head was foggy, and now that she’d come to her senses, she wanted it to clear up. He wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be. Meaning...

“I made it?” she uttered.

His head shot up, fearful eyes flickering until he realised what was happening. “Clarke,” he finally acknowledged her, relaxing in his chair.

She blinked a few more times. “I made it,” she repeated, not a question this time.

She searched for his hand. Their fingers tangled. “Yeah,” Bellamy nodded. He looked tired, Clarke realised. A frown pulled over her face.

“You should get some sleep,” she told him. She was tired herself, ready to sink back in dreamless heaven. The IV next to the bed was probably dripping some kind of painkiller into her blood. It dulled her senses.

He scoffed. “I’m not going anywhere, Clarke. What if something happens to you?”

The medication made her drowsy. A wistful smile appeared on her lips. “Then stay here, dumbass.” She shifted until she was sure he could join her on the bed. Clarke was certain that he did, but she didn’t have time to get it confirmed. She was already on her way back to sleep.

______________________

It took them four days to get her back on her feet -- on crutches, but on her feet nonetheless. From the moment they’d taken her off the painkillers, he had to miss her smile. Not that he blamed her. There were so many things that had been so wrong, so many things to come that were even worse. He could see how little she slept. Polis covered it up with makeup, but he saw when she woke up, and before she went off to bed. She clutched his hand throughout the review of her time in the Arena. He didn’t complain. When it was all over, the interview, the film, the goodbyes; they were going home, only one coffin on their train. Bellamy held her wordlessly as she crouched by the wooden box and screamed. Cece wouldn’t dare interrupt them.

The district was silent when she came home. Thankfully so, because Clarke would not have been able to handle applause. After the silent welcome, she was only approached by the mayor, to thank her quietly for her efforts. Her mother came up to her afterwards, but the girl pulled her hands away from Abigail’s, and shook her head. “I’ll be home,” she promised, but there wasn’t any warmth to her voice. The doctor trailed off, leaving her daughter.

Bellamy was greeted by only one; Octavia. She wrapped her brother in a bear hug and shared a knowing look with Clarke. The blonde nodded, then cast her eyes on the cracked asphalt beneath her feet. Octavia and Bellamy discussed dinner briefly, but the younger Blake then left for their home, leaving Bellamy and Clarke with each other.

Clarke was staring at her feet when she muttered: “What’s next?”

Bellamy turned so that his shoulder rested against Clarke’s. “Survival,” He shared a sideway glance with her. 

She leaned into him, exhaling shakily. “It doesn’t end here, does it?”

He carefully pulled his arm out from under her own, to wrap it around her body and pull her into his side. “It never does.”


	6. epilogue

And it never does. First the victory tour for Clarke, that wakes up every single memory. The nightmares also stay. They become less frequent, but they’re there, for the both of them. And every year, they get to relive it as people interview them, talk about them or need something from them. They get to try and keep two kids alive, to watch both of them die every year. Bellamy is scared at every Reaping, as Octavia’s chances at being the chosen female tribute increase. 

But Octavia is safe at some point, and sometimes, the nightmares stay away for a few nights. Clarke teaches Bellamy how to set traps and what plants he can collect to hand out in the village. They go behind the backs of authorities to make sure every good soul in district twelve is fed. Clarke, Bellamy and Octavia rest in the meadow behind the fence on warm or snowy days. Eventually, the young Blake finds herself a boyfriend -- Bellamy takes his sweet time to trust him -- and it comes down to the two of them.

An unusually warm night in May, Clarke finds herself in the ankle high grass, her head on Bellamy’s thigh and her hand in his. He breathes easy; he’s found himself somewhere the nightmares can't find. Clarke doesn’t even consider waking him. She strokes the palm of his hand lightly, sneaking glances at his toned skin that glows in the moonlight. His face matches the night sky, with freckles like splatters of stars. She sighs. The war never ends, Bellamy said it himself. But with him next to her, on a night like this, it feels like it does. A little.


End file.
